Free The Post Office Girl by Stefan Zweig Page B

golden, curving helmet of hair are new, her own bare skin as framed by the glittering dress is completely new. She moves closer to the mirror, trying to recognize the woman that she knows is herself, but her temples throb with fear that the exhilarating image might not last, might vanish if she came any closer or made some sudden movement. It can’t be real, she thinks. A person can’t suddenly change like that. Because if it’s real, then I’m…She pauses, not daring to think the word. But the woman in the mirror, guessing the thought, begins to smile to herself, at first slightly, then more and more broadly. Now the eyes are quiteopenly and proudly laughing at her, and the parted red lips seem to acknowledge with amusement: “Yes, I am beautiful.”
    It’s a strange and wonderful feeling to admire her own body, the breasts unconstrained beneath the close-fitting silk, the slender yet rounded forms under the colors of the dress, the relaxed bare shoulders. Curious to see this slim new body in motion, she slowly turns to one side as she watches the effect: again her eyes meet those of her reflection, proud and pleased. Bolder now, she takes three steps back: again the quick movement is lovely. She ventures a rapid pirouette, making her skirts twirl, and again the mirror smiles: “Excellent! How slender, how graceful you are!” She has a restless, experimental feeling in her limbs, she feels like dancing. She races to the middle of the room, then comes back toward the mirror; the image smiles, and it’s her own smile. She tests and inspects the image from all sides, caressing it with her eyes, smitten with herself, unable to have enough of this alluring new self that smiles as it approaches from the mirror, beautifully dressed, young, and remade. She feels like throwing her arms around this new person that is herself. She moves so close that the eyes almost touch, the real ones and those of the reflection, and her lips are so near their counterparts that for a moment her breath makes them disappear. She strikes more poses to get different views of her new self. Then the sound of the gong downstairs comes for a third time. She gives a start. My God, I can’t keep my aunt waiting, she must be angry already. Quickly, on with the jacket, the evening jacket, light, colorful, trimmed with exquisite fur. Then, before her hand touches the switch to turn out the light, an eager parting glance at the beneficent mirror, one last look. Again the shining eyes, again the happy smile that’s her own, yet not her own. “Excellent, excellent,” the mirror smiles at her. She hurries down the hallway to her aunt’s room; the cool silky fluttering of the dress makes the quick movement a pleasure. She feels borne along, carried bythe wind. She was a child the last time she flew like this. This is the beginning of the delirium of transformation.
     
    “It fits you very well! Like a glove,” says her aunt. “It doesn’t take a lot of tricks when you’re young. The dressmaker doesn’t have problems unless the dress has to hide rather than reveal. But, seriously, it’s a perfect fit, you’re hardly the same person. It’s clear now what a good figure you have. But you’ve got to hold your head up too, don’t be mad at me for saying it but you’re always so unsure of yourself, so hunched over when you walk, you cringe like a cat in the rain. You’ve still got to learn how to walk the way Americans do, free and easy, chest out like a ship in the wind. Lord, I wish I were as young as you are.” Christine blushes. So she’s really not betraying anything, she’s not ridiculous, not provincial. Meanwhile her aunt has continued the inspection, looking her over appreciatively from head to toe. “Perfect! But your neck needs something.” She rummages in her chest. “Here, put these pearls on! No, silly, don’t worry, get hold of yourself, they’re not real. The real ones are in a safe back home, honestly we wouldn’t bring